Remembering – For My Mother
She sat, looking out of the window on a crisp spring morning and remembered.
She remembered growing up in a house where being a child meant always feeling safe. Where she could make “soup” out of her ice cream while sitting in the breakfast nook, and that was okay. Where she could make “tents” out of sheets in her bedroom and play all day with her Barbie and Ken dolls, and that was okay. Where dinner was always served at 6pm, without fail, in the Formal Dining Room. Not finishing what was on your plate was not okay! But polite conversation was, and holding your knife and fork correctly while saying “Please” and “Thank You” was.
She remembered the change that occurred in her life when The River House was bought and summers became magical. The drudgery of school, homework, and schedules was left behind and replaced with the carefree living of hot summers without time. What bathing suit was she going to wear that day? Were the boys, who lived down the lane, going to show up that day? Was it going to rain? Would Momma let her ride her bicycle to the corner store for an ice cream bar?
Sandwiches were made and packed up into a container along with some chips and a drink, and that would last for hours while she sat on the pier with her Mom and her friends. She never got tired of just watching the water move, the birds fly, and the boats cruising by pulling skiers.
They talked about everything and nothing at all.
She remembered the changes that happened as she became a Mother of three children. Life was not as carefree as it was being a child herself. But it became about caring for them. Making sure they felt safe in their home. Making sure it was okay to make “soup” out of their ice cream. Making sure it was okay to make tents in their bedrooms. Making sure dinners were always served, not necessarily in the Dining Room, not necessarily on time every night, and not usually as fancy as her Mother’s. But she did remind her children daily how to hold their knives and their forks and to say “Please” and “Thank You.”
She made sure that her children experienced that magic in the summertime when she would pack them all up in the station wagon that used to be her Mother’s and arrive at The River House. Her Mother would be waiting in the driveway and yell “yoo-hoo” as they drove up the lane. Sandwiches were made and put in containers and toted out to the pier. Hours were spent jumping in and out of the water.
And now she is a Grandmother. And the cycle continues on.
But something never changed. Through all of the stages and changes in her life, her Mother was always there. She was in the kitchen when the ice cream soup was being made. She was somewhere in the house, cleaning, when the tents were made. She was at one end of the Dining Room table, making sure that “Please” and “thank You” were said.
The summer magic at The River House happened because she was there. She made it magical. She made it carefree. She made the meals that were eaten on the front porch in the coolness of the mornings and the evenings. She made sure every night at sunset that everyone was on the pier, watching the slow descent of the sun. Each night proved a different show of spectacular color.
As she remembered all of these things, she hoped she was as good of a Mother. She hoped she was as good of a Grandmother. She hoped her children would think their growing up years were magical and carefree. And she hoped that she would be the constant through all of the changes in their lives, like her Mother was in hers. Always being there, always ready to love.
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That was very nice A moving tribute. I love you, Monty
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